


Whose woods these are I think I know

by gonetoarcadia



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonetoarcadia/pseuds/gonetoarcadia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson has been  waiting for Steve Rogers since he was twelve years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose woods these are I think I know

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/5102.html?thread=4408046&%20#t4408046) in the Avengers kinkmeme.
> 
> The poem referenced is [Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening](http://www.ketzle.com/frost/snowyeve.htm) by Robert Frost.

Philip Coulson was 12 years old when he realized he was gay.

He was the quiet, deadpan kid even then. The one that wasn’t picked first or last, or the one who was ever your best friend. He was the one you trusted your secrets to, the one you liked having on your side in a fight but who sometimes got forgotten in spite of that because somehow he just sort of slipped into the background. He wasn’t tall or short, light or dark. He could make you laugh but you rarely remembered the joke.

He was the kid who said goodbye to the other kids at the end of the day, received enthusiastic goodbyes in turn and then went home by himself. He was the kid who quietly did his homework, made himself some dinner when his mom worked the late shift and then stayed up late into the night reading comic books and listening to the radio. He was the kid who was very profoundly lonely and whose closest friends lived in his imagination.

There was something about caped crusaders swinging in to save the day that spoke to him on a very personal, very profound level. They fought for what was right even through extreme danger, and they did it in a way that made other people want to stand up and take notice, made them want to be better themselves. He lived internally in the world of masks and secret identities and tragic backstories, and he walked shoulder to shoulder with people who were just like him – the odd ones out who had finally found what made them special.

Of all the heroes, all the stories, his favourite was Captain America for one very simple reason: he was real. Captain American had been a real person.

It was the early 80s and his mom was a single parent working as a swing-shift nurse, so there wasn’t a lot of money to go around. Phil did his best to help out by working a paper route and volunteering to help stock shelves at the super market when they needed an extra set of hands. Although he was very scrupulous about putting most of the money into the glass jar in the cupboard over the sink, he always made sure to keep a little of it tucked away in his sock drawer. His mom knew about it of course, and every once in a while he’d find an extra quarter in amongst the carefully counted pile.

On the first Saturday of every month Phil would take his little stash of coins and head to the local comic book store. The man who owned it was very friendly, and he took a shine to Phil early on because it was hard not to warm to that kind of earnestness. This was why, when Phil went in to pick up his new copy of Captain America, the man (a Mr. William Powell) also handed him a thin little book.

“This came in with our shipment for some reason. It must have been a mistake and I can’t sell it, so I think you had better take it.”

He was very grave as he said it, and Phil took the book from him with an appropriate degree of seriousness. Its glossy cover shone back the light at him.

_The Life and Times of Captain America, by Richard W. Mason_

That night Phil stayed awake until dawn, hiding his light under the bed covers when his mother came home around 1. He studied every black and white photograph, ran his fingers over every line of text. Interviews and newspaper articles lined the pages, and he devoured them all like if he left it until tomorrow they’d simply disappear into thin air. He read with hungry eyes and a rapidly beating heart about a skinny kid from Brooklyn who just wanted a chance, and who loved comic books and superheroes more than almost anything.

Phil had loved Captain America since he was eight, but that night he fell head over heels in love with Steve Rogers.

* * *

“Agent Coulson, would you mind if I had a word?”

Looking up from the newspaper he was currently reading, Phil found himself meeting the steadfast gaze of Captain Rogers.

“Of course, Captain. What can I help you with?”

For just a second the Captain hesitated – something that was very rare for him – and he nodded towards the door with a glance.

“I don’t want to sound secretive, but I’d much rather if we discussed this in private.”

Unable to help himself, Phil’s curiosity sparked a little. Captain Rogers had been fairly private since he’d been… awake, and he largely kept to himself. Fury had been content to let this go on for a while, wanting to let Rogers have the time and space to deal with his new situation. Since the coming together of the Avengers, though, Rogers had slowly been coming out of his shell little by little. He still wore serious a little too often for anyone who knew him’s taste, but then again Phil was just about the last person to be able to throw stones on that subject.

“No problem. Why don’t we step into my office?”

Folding the newspaper as he stood, Phil tucked it under his arm and led the way out of the 12th floor SHIELD common area and down the hall towards his office. Captain Rogers followed just behind his shoulder, and Phil allowed himself a brief smile.

They reached their destination shortly – a medium-sized non-descript office that could have been the workspace of nearly anyone who worked in the building. There were very few telltale personal traces, and only the most observant would be able to deduce who spent their hours at this desk. Really, the modest nameplate on the door was just about the only defining feature.

“Have a seat,” he said with a gesture at the chair across from his desk. It only took a moment to walk around and sink into his own chair, while Rogers closed the door behind him.

“I appreciate you taking the time,” Rogers told him with his usual too severe sincerity. He crossed the floor space and sat down in the other chair.

“It’s no problem,” Phil told him honestly. “You know I’m at your disposal anytime. I’m just glad if I can help you out.” And he was. He really was.

Rogers was silent for a moment, and his blue eyes wandered the desk and then to the carpet. He was dressed like normal, though – or at least normal for a man from the 1940s who was suddenly living in 2012, so Phil quickly surmised that there couldn’t be anything too wrong. The Captain wasn’t about to run away to Guatemala, anyway.

“You know,” Rogers began finally, as the silence started to draw out, “sometimes it’s very weird trying to understand the things that have changed and the things that haven’t.”

Phil clasped his hands together and nodded slightly.

“I can only imagine.”

“It’s… you know, I don’t really think people have changed all that much. Still seem to be making a lot of the same mistakes, for the most part.”

Phil thought about this. He was having difficulty conjecturing where the Captain was going with this, and he didn’t like it. If it was something serious and he didn’t handle it just right then Fury was going to have his head on a plate. Not to mention that this was Captain America. His personal hero. Sitting across from him looking rather lost.

“Maybe…” he tried, testing the waters. “They certainly haven’t become saints overnight. But wars aren’t won by single battles, and you continue even if you have to take and retake the same ground over and over.”

Rogers nodded, looking thoughtful. He met Phil’s gaze this time.

“I’ve been reading a lot about civil rights, trying to understand. I get the idea of equality, and I also understand why it’s hard for some people to accept. Embracing that ideal means asking a lot of hard questions.”

Phil shrugged, steepling his fingers.

“That’s true, but I think we were probably made to ask those questions. ‘All men are created equal’ is in the Declaration of Independence.”

“I didn’t say I disagreed.” Rogers smiled for the first time since he’d approached Phil outside, and even if it was a wry smile Phil still felt settled by it. “I’m just having trouble differentiating between the civil rights movement in the book I bought and the gay marriage debates happening on my tv. Thinking about how we’re still fighting the same fights… it makes me tired.”

Opting for blankness in the face of a potentially awkward and personal discussion, Phil flattened his palms against the desk and tried to read what Rogers was looking for. Because someone spluttering out in a torrent his personal difficulties with being labeled for his sexuality and a lifelong yearning for a figurehead (a hero) to champion this particular cause was probably not the reason the Captain had asked for a word. He took a breath.

“Where do you fit into this?”

“I.” Rogers ducked his head again, and Phil tried very hard to ignore the thudding of his heart or stomach or some other internal organ he wasn’t terribly familiar with. “It can’t really be wrong, can it? I’ve read the Bible, and I like to think that I’ve tried to do right by God. I’ve talked to Dr. Banner about it, and I trust him when he says that the science behind… sexual preference as a biological part of human beings is solid. If He created us like this, aren’t we all starting from the same blank slate? Aren’t we all created equal?”

The sudden vulnerability on the Captain’s face was too much to process.

“…I like to think so.”

The Captain sighed, and slowly relaxed a little into his chair. Phil realized for the first time how tense Rogers had been.

“Listen, Captain,” he began, and this time he was pretty sure his heart was actually in his throat. “Who people love and what they do in their own time is no one’s business but their own. I firmly believe this, and I will personally deal with anyone who tells you otherwise.”

The slow laugh that that startled from Rogers was like a gift, a god-send.

“You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

“I might,” Phil replied, his dry humour a little too dry. His hands felt very cold and he kept them flat for steadiness’ sake.

“I knew all along what I needed to do, I guess. It’s just nice to hear someone say it.” The smile that broke over his face this time wasn’t bitter or sad or scared. “It’s much easier to be brave when I have people like you in my corner.”

The Captain stood up and, not really knowing what else to do, Phil stood too. Apparently it was the right decision as Rogers quickly walked around the desk as though it was of no importance, and wrapped both arms around Phil in a very solid hug. For just a second Phil remembered light-headedly _right, supersoldier_ , and then Rogers had pulled back to give him one more quick, almost secretive smile.

“Next time I’ll have to ask you something easy, huh?”

More than a little dazed, Phil’s only answer was “Sure.”

Rogers laughed again, a warm, rich sound, and then he was walking back across the office and opening the door.

“Thank you, Agent. I’ll talk to you, uh, soon.”

And with that same almost boyish grin, the man was gone. Phil, with one hand on his desk for support, stood in the middle of his office a very star-struck, love-struck twelve-year old boy who was seeing the dawn rise over the pages of a black and white illustration creased from over-eager fingers.

* * *

The day Rogers turned up at SHIELD wearing a suit, Phil knew something was about to happen. It wasn’t that Rogers didn’t try to present himself well, because he always did, but he preferred not to pretend to be something he wasn’t. It was one of the many reasons why everyone from Director Fury to the night custodians respected him so much.

The day he walked in wearing a suit and a nervous smile, Phil sat in his office and tried not to indulge his nervous tic. He’d talked to Fury about their conversation, of course; it was his job to make sure the Director was apprised of everything going on with his most valuable (and volatile) assets. But he left out a few of his own conjectures and assumptions, and he didn’t see a problem with that. The Captain sought him out for a reason, and he was pretty sure that he owed him at least solidarity in return.

The day Rogers walked into Phil’s office wearing a suit, a nervous smile and something that looked suspiciously like happiness, Phil was still caught by surprise even though he’d been sitting there reading the same page over and over for the past twenty minutes. Because the thing was, he never assumed it was him. Inferences, guesses, hopes - yes, but never more than that. One didn’t simply expect one’s boyhood idol and all-around American hero to appear and make good on thirty years of waiting.

But there he was, looking like a million dollars.

“I, ah, Agent Coulson,” the Captain started, looking a touch flushed.

“I think Phil would be fine,” Phil said, and he didn’t allow anyone to call him that. Not that he worked with. The Captain managed to look surprised.

“Phil,” he said, as though testing out the name, and then he smiled again. “I just came by because I wanted to thank you.”

Phil was lost at that one and it was possible his expression said as much, so he steeled his infallible poker face.

“I’m sorry, what are you thanking me for?”

“For talking to me when I needed support. It really helped.”

“Oh.” Phil blinked. “You’re very welcome.”

Rogers’ grin was practically blinding now, and he bobbed a nod before ducking back out the door with the same alacrity with which he’d arrived.

...well. Phil had no idea at all what to make of that.

* * *

There are many pivotal moments in one’s life – doors opening and doors closing. And when he finally understood what Captain Rogers had meant as he stood in the doorway, alight with his own happiness, Phil thought of a poem. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the name.

They were in the garage of all places – though perhaps that shouldn’t have struck him as odd, not when Stark was involved. Afterwards of course it all made sense. But at the time, that moment when he passed the window looking for Agent Amrik, he hadn’t known he was about to be suddenly struck by the philosophy of Robert Frost.

The garage was empty except for Captain Rogers and Tony Stark, who shouldn’t really have even been on the premises. He was currently on Director Fury’s shit list, and wasn’t supposed to be touching anything SHIELD-related, Phil thought a touch dazedly. Perhaps that included the Captain.

Rogers was bent over Stark with a faint smile on his face, and whatever he said it was to Stark’s ear. The reaction was almost instantaneous. Stark took a jerky step back, mouth opening in blatant denial of… something, and then Rogers was stepping forward to fill the space, apparently refusing to take no for an answer. When his mouth found Stark’s, Stark immediately went still, his eyes naked with something like wonder. Slowly, very slowly, his arm rose to thread fingers through Rogers’ hair and then-

And then Phil left.

He had an agent to find. And there were miles to go before sleep.

Later, when Rogers passed by him in the hallway on his way back from Fury’s office with Stark in tow, the Captain shot Phil a wide smile that only animated his already attractive features that much more.

“Phil,” he greeted.

“Captain,” Phil replied woodenly.

“Phil? Are we calling you that around the office now?” Stark inquired, his always mirthful eyes practically dancing. “I suppose I’ll have to get over it but I still want to see the birth certificate.”

“Tony, not now.”

Shaking his head and pulling Stark down the hall after him, the Captain shot Phil one last apologetic smile before they passed out of sight, hands and fingers tangled together.

Agent Coulson just walked down the corridor of SHIELD, paperwork with his latest mission briefing firmly in hand. There were eight hundred things to do and far too many people to organize. He had a complicated operation to coordinate, and not to mention that he had an entire collection of first edition Captain America back issues to find an appraiser for on short notice. Time may have not been money, but it was a clock ticking down the hours and hours of emptiness until emptiness. Really, it was just another day.

When he stepped into the office, the door closed behind him.


End file.
